


Blood Comes Undone

by sysrae



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Angst, Canon Compliant, Dead Sheriff Stilinski, Derek has triggers, Derek is a Good Friend, Derek is a full-shift werewolf, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Needy Derek, Oral Sex, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Post S4, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, So much angst, The Sheriff is the MCD, past suicidal ideation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-11
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:57:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3509183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sysrae/pseuds/sysrae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sheriff dies, and Stiles finds comfort in Derek.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It happens so goddamn fast.

Stiles is in his dad's office, berating the Sheriff for his illicit consumption of curly fries, while Derek, who's over at Parrish's desk, fights back a private smile. He's not sure when or how it happened, but at some point in the past year, the sound of Stilinski bickering stopped being an irritation and became, if not exactly soothing, then a sign of normalcy. Derek is fond of their fierce, wry kinship, the way they push and pull at each other like magnets. He and Laura were a family of two, and while he still technically has Peter, it's nowhere near the same thing. Peter is a phantom limb, a painful absence imitating the shape of what was lost, but unable to take his weight. Stiles and his dad are solid all the way through.

'Nearly done,' says Parrish, squinting at his incomplete report. He said the same thing ten minutes ago, and will doubtless say it again in another ten if Derek doesn't intervene. They started having lunch together a few months back, and this is part of the ritual: Parrish trying to get as much done as possible before Derek loses patience and hauls him away to eat. And Derek's hungry; has been since he arrived. But then Stiles showed up and started in on his dad, and it's enough of a full-body performance that Derek decided he could wait a bit, after all.

Not that he's staring, or anything.

'The Sheriff in?' someone asks.

'Yeah,' says Parrish, sparing a glance for a deputy Derek half-recognises but doesn't know, a blonde guy in his late thirties with a beefy neck and a stained uniform. 'In his office.'

'Right,' says the guy, and any other time, the scent of him would give Derek cause for concern, because he's sweating buckets, pulse through the roof, but Parrish knows him and this is a police station; he's probably come straight from an ugly callout.

But when the Sheriff sees him through the open door of his office, he stills, and Derek's hackles rise.

'Jacobs,' says Stilinski, flat and even, the shift in tone from dad-voice to cop-voice strong enough that Stiles breaks off mid-sentence. 'I wasn't expecting you in today.'

'I'll bet you weren't,' Jacobs breathes.

And then he draws his gun, so fast, and fires at Sheriff Stilinski.

It's an awful, impossible moment, and as such, it goes on forever. The Sheriff flinches, an ugly jolt, and starts to fall. Stiles freezes, mouth hanging open like it's a sick joke, like this can't possibly be happening, and Derek launches out of his chair, but he's still too far away as Jacobs turns the gun on himself. The second shot fractures the moment; Derek catches the Sheriff, staggering to his knees, and for a half-second, he thinks the entry wound in his forehead is a mistake, because John shudders, eyes rolling sideways to stare at Stiles.

'Son,' he says, a dreamy rasp – and then he smiles, and then he's gone, a literal deadweight in Derek's arms, blood and brain matter soaking into the sleeve of his Henley.

'No,' Stiles croaks, stiff-limbed as he stumbles forwards, 'dad, no, dad dad – _dad_?' He grabs his father's shirt, panting hard, long fingers gripping the fabric, shaking him, pleading against the grief that's already twisting his voice out of true, into something raw and gutted. ' _Dad!_ Dad, please, no, you'll be OK, you're OK, I've just gotta –  Derek, you gotta take his pain, just take his pain –'

'Stiles –'

' _No!_ ' Stiles sobs, 'No, this isn't – dad, you'll be, you'll – I – dad, dad, _please_ –'

He breaks off, choking horribly as Parrish, who's already called an ambulance, steps up and puts a hand on his shoulder, anchoring them both. Stiles makes a noise like a stuck pig, but doesn't fight the touch; he's struggling to breathe, and Derek's suddenly terrified he's going to have a panic attack, but instead, Stiles screams, which is both better and infinitely worse, the sound ragged and raw, and half the station is in there now, the room a welter of shouting voices and beating heats, but all Derek hears is Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, and the void where his dad should be.

 

*

 

Later, it's Parrish who puts it together, and Parrish who tells them, a broken collective huddled in the McCall's front room, that Jacobs was a wifebeater. The Sheriff had found out weeks ago, agreeing to help Mrs Jacobs on the quiet; she hadn't trusted anyone else in Beacon Hills to keep her safe, to not let anything slip. And nobody had, so far as Parrish could tell: Jacobs was just that paranoid, and when he'd figured out that his wife was leaving, he'd shot her and come straight to the station, wanting revenge on the Sheriff and willing to die to get it, because the alternative was going to jail, and everyone knows what that means for cops.

'So it's not – it wasn't supernatural?' Liam asks, shoulders hunching. 'I mean, we're not under attack?'

'No more than usual,' Parrish says, then winces at his words. 'Sorry. I just – no. It's not supernatural.'

Melissa says, faintly, 'Well, that's something.'

'Not enough,' says Malia.

Silence falls, broken only by Lydia's scratchy breathing. She screamed the Sheriff's death, Kira said, and hasn't spoken since. She's wild-eyed, wild-haired, a wailing woman in truth; she looks like something out of the book of fairy tales that Derek had as a child, but her pinched expression is angry. As is Malia's, for that matter: his cousin is furious, fidgeting like she wants nothing so much as to snarl and bolt. She and Stiles aren't together any more, but she's always been protective of him, possessive and loyal, and if Jacobs hadn't already killed himself, Malia would be out there right now, hunting him down. Liam looks small and scared, pressing up against Kira in an unconscious bid for comfort; the Kitsune, by contrast, reeks of anxiety, so fretful of everyone else's grief that she can't yet feel her own.

Chris Argent stands sentinel at the window, his back to the room, while Parrish stays calm, retreating into a soldier's stoicism. Eventually, the mask will break, but right now, he's keeping it together, and for that, Derek is pathetically grateful, because somebody has to, and for once, it isn't him. Melissa is red-eyed and rigid, hands clasped to stop them shaking, and Scott looks younger than Derek's ever seen him, squashed up against his mother's side on their beaten-up sofa, crying silently. The McCalls have each other, and Stiles has them, but they're not his dad, will never be his dad, and right now –

Stiles is physically in the room, but otherwise, he isn't there at all.

He's blank and still, and nobody can look at him, because it hurts too much. It would be easier if he were crying, if he were in a position to receive the comfort they all so desperately want to give, but he's not. Instead, he's radiating Do Not Touch like a fucking aura, and until that changes, none of them can so much as try to help him; not even Derek.

Especially Derek.

He hasn't felt this numb since Boyd. It's not his fault, but it _is_ , because Jacobs smelled wrong, and Derek should've known better than to let him past, and now he has yet another death on his conscience, one more bloody failure. He wants to apologise, wants to crawl over to Stiles and bare his throat in apology, or shake the boy until he snaps, do _something_ to get a reaction. But Stiles is numb, too, his long limbs utterly motionless, and if Derek couldn't hear his pulse, he'd worry his heart wasn't beating.

As though he can sense his thoughts, Chris Argent picks that moment to turn, his blue gaze flicking from Derek to Stiles and back again. The triskele tattoo burns between his shoulders, and all at once, Derek feels sick. First Hale, then Argent, and now Stilinski: three dead families – shifter, hunter, human – all survived by a single, broken son. Fire, blades, bullets. What kind of a world is this?

'Stiles, honey,' Melissa says, suddenly. Her voice is a shock in the silence, and all the more painful for being necessary. 'You can stay here as long as you want, OK? Eighteen or not, you shouldn't be alone.'

There's a long, scraped pause as the words reach Stiles. He lifts his face, pale and tear-streaked, and Derek's heart stops beating.

'Home,' Stiles says. His voice is tinny and fake, and tight with loss. 'I want to go home.'

And damned if they aren't stupid enough to let him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 Here's the thing about Stiles: he's a social creature. Even on bad days, he's mouthy and tactile and energetic, and the absence of any one of those attributes should set off warning bells to his nearest and dearest, let alone all three. But losing his dad is so much worse than a bad day, and everyone knows it, and there's no way to fix it, so nobody calls him out. He stays in the house, the funeral plans delegated to Melissa, and eats the food that's left in the fridge without buying more, if picking listlessly at a succession of dishes can be called eating, and sleeps with the aid of his dad's scotch, because fuck you, that's why. It's not like he has anywhere else to be, anyway; he graduated weeks ago, and all he has left is time. During the day, Scott and Kira, Lydia and Malia come over in careful shifts, staying just long enough to satisfy themselves that he's not an immediate danger to himself, and at night, he suspects but can't prove that Derek, the creeper, is lurking about outside, ears pricked for signs of distress.

Stiles is plenty distressed. He just can't be rescued. Not even by well-meaning werewolves.

At least once a day, he thinks it: _my dad is dead_. It hurts, but only in the abstract, and deep down, that worries him badly, like he's just come out of surgery and the anaesthesia's yet to wear off, _anaesthesia_ here meaning _shoc_ k. He doesn't dream, and that worries him, too, because nightmares were part of his psychological landscape long before the Nogitsune made use of them, and for all that the nightly scotch settles him, he knows it's not keeping him safe. The days drag by, and he doesn't feel real, but he doesn't hurt like he ought to, either. Instead, he's impatient, itching in his skin for something he can't name, pacing the house like he lacks the freedom to leave it, stomach twisting in ugly knots whenever he passes his dad's room, still unentered, and then Melissa swings by, quiet and polite, to tell him the funeral is in three days, and will he speak the eulogy, or should someone else do it for him?

'Of course I'll do it,' Stiles snaps, irrationally angered by the question. 'Jesus, why would you even ask that?'

Melissa arches an eyebrow. 'Just wanted to check,' she says – then hesitates, chin lifting. Studying him. 'You know I meant it, right?' she says, finally. 'What I said at the house. Stiles, you're always welcome to stay with us. You're family.'

Something in him threatens to break, and Stiles shoves it ruthlessly down. 'I know,' he says, hoarsely. 'Thanks.'

Melissa nods, her eyes worried and kind, and hugs him for a shorter length of time than she probably would've done, if Stiles hadn't tensed up at the contact. That worries him, too – his reaction, not that Melissa hugged him – but he's functional, he's up and awake and hasn't cried since the day it happened, and maybe that means he's some special new type of broken, but right now it's working for him, he needs this, whatever it is; and anyway, he has a eulogy to write.

It should be easy. Stiles loves – loved – will always love – his dad, and writing about him should be painful, not impossible. But he can't do it. Every time he tries, it comes out in the present tense: _my dad is_ , not _my dad was_ , and whenever he tries to correct himself, his hands freeze up, or his eyes skate over the passage until he deletes it again, and then he's right back to square one.

'You don't have to do it,' Scott says, when Stiles makes the mistake of mentioning this. 'I mean, I can help if you –'

'Don't,' says Stiles, more sharply than he means to. He feels jittery and overcaffeinated, except for the part where he ran out of coffee days ago, and when Scott gives him the patented Kicked Puppy look, Stiles grips the edge of the bench to keep from hitting him. As though aware of the impulse, Scott backs up a pace, which is absurd: he's a goddamn alpha werewolf and Stiles is _Stiles_ , and what the fuck is wrong with him? This is _Scott_ , his brother-in-all-but-blood; the Sheriff is – was – like a dad to him, too, and they ought to be grieving together. But Stiles can't meet his eyes, doesn't want him there, his presence itching like a starched shirt. He feels better alone, but still impatient, lost in himself and the blank, white page where the eulogy should be.

In the end, he jots down a list of tense-free bullet points and tells himself he'll speak off the cuff. Jesus, he's still Stiles Stilinski – talking is what he _does_. How hard can it be? He can get up in front of a crowd and describe his dad, right?

He finishes off the scotch, and doesn't dream.

 

*

 

The morning of the funeral, Melissa comes over early, Scott and Kira in tow, bearing what seems like an inordinate quantity of food for the wake. The house is clean enough, which seems to surprise her, as though she'd expected Stiles to be knee-deep in empty Doritos packets and half-eaten twizzlers, like he's still nine years old. Which, honestly, is true at least some of the time, but not right now. He's wearing his only suit, the second-hand one he bought for prom a million years ago, the jacket unaccountably tight across his shoulders, and he spends a good minute trying futilely to shrug the thing into some semblance of comfort before he realises that his guests, all three of them, are watching him with a sort of fearful worry.

Stiles blinks, puzzled. 'What?'

'You seem –' Kira starts, then falters, staring at the McCalls as if she'd half expected to be cut off, awkwardly ploughing ahead when they both stay silent, '– I mean, I guess we just assumed you'd be, um, visibly upset – not that we _want_ you upset, just that we were talking in the car and we figured you might need extra help today and we had a plan, only you're coping a bit _too_ well and it's, well, I think it's freaking us out?' She takes a steadying breath, and adds, somewhat timidly, 'You do understand what's happening, right? That this is your dad's funeral?'

'Yeah,' says Stiles. 'Yeah, I mean –' He looks between them, swallowing against a lump in his throat. Logically, he knows something's wrong with him; that he hasn't been right since the day it happened. Stiles loves – loved – will always love his dad, and his dad is dead, and he should be crying or catatonic or _something_ , and instead he's just... this, whatever it is, impatient and disconnected and right on the edge of anger. More quietly, he says, 'I don't know. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's supernatural. Maybe I'm cursed, or something.'

Melissa looks pained. 'Maybe,' she says, in a tone that suggests otherwise, and then goes back to packing Stiles's fridge.

The whole thing makes him uneasy, and the feeling only intensifies as the morning wears on. By the time they reach the church, he's sweating, touching the pocket that holds his notes and telling himself it's OK, it's all OK, he can do this, it's just a speech, but suddenly he's surrounded by people, his dad's friends and colleagues and partners of both, all of them looking at him with a mixture of pain and pity. Stiles turns away and sees the coffin – closed casket, at Melissa's suggestion – and that's when he starts to shake.

'Hey,' says Scott, quietly. Stiles jumps in his seat – his _seat_? He doesn't remember sitting down, or when the service started, though both things have clearly happened – and tries to settle his racing pulse. 'It's OK, dude. You can do this.'

'Yeah,' Stiles whispers, vastly less sure than he was that morning, and then time skips again, and suddenly he's walking up to the pulpit to give his eulogy, hands clenched white around his notes. He stares at the coffin, its polished inlay gleaming in the afternoon light, and all at once, he can barely breathe. He hooks two fingers into his collar, pulls at the knot of his skinny black tie, feels cold sweat on his throat and nails. He grabs the pulpit for balance, looking out at Scott and Derek, Chris and Deaton, Kira and Lydia, Malia and Liam, and that's when it hits him like a fucking freight train, the reason he's been so calm: _he didn't think it was real,_ had somehow convinced himself that his friends were planning something, that his dad would come back like Peter did, but they weren't, and he won't, and _John Stilinski is dead_ , Stiles saw him die and he's never going to see him again unless he rips open the coffin, and oh, god, _dad_ –

He's having a panic attack at his father's funeral.


	3. Chapter 3

 Derek was too slow to save the Sheriff, but he's damn sure quick enough to get Stiles out of the church the second it all goes wrong.

'Breathe, Stiles,' he murmurs, propping the boy on a wooden bench and kneeling in front of him, thumbs massaging circles into the backs of those eloquent hands. 'Breathe in slowly. Hold it, that's it. Now breathe out again. And inhale.'

His voice is calm, but inside, Derek feels raw. For all he's taken to lurking outside the Stilinski house of an evening, he hasn't been brave enough to ever go inside, unable to bear the prospect that Stiles might blame him. He knew, from talking to Scott and Melissa, that Stiles wasn't grieving the way they'd thought he would; that his friends were worried about him, but uncertain of what to do, and if Derek had overheard anything to support those fears, he would've intervened. But night after night, Stiles slept without waking. He didn't cry, but he wasn't happy, either, and by all accounts, he hadn't seemed delusional. They should've known better than to trust it. _Derek_ should've known better, because now Stiles is sobbing, shaking as he struggles to breathe, his scent near acid with grief.

'I thought –' Stiles gasps, and Derek shakes his head.

'Breathe,' he says. 'Breathe, then talk.'

Stiles makes a noise between whining and laughter, shoulders heaving, tears streaming down his cheeks, and all at once, Derek understands.

'You thought he was coming back,' he says, softly. 'But you didn't _know_ you thought it until you did.'

Stiles keens, hunching over. His forehead grazes Derek's knuckles. He's still breathing too fast, but it's evening out. 'I'm such an idiot,' he whispers.

'You're not.'

'I saw him die.' Stiles lifts his head, staring bleakly at Derek. 'I _saw_ it. Why would any part of me think I didn't?'

Derek holds his gaze. 'Because it hurt less than the truth.'

Stiles nods. He's still crying, but quietly, and after a moment, he gulps out, 'So what, he doesn't get a eulogy now, because I'm a fuckup? Are they just in there, just _waiting_ for me, or –?'

'Scott's giving one,' Derek says. He can hear it, faint and heartfelt, if he listens. 'It's good. He wrote it on palm cards.'

Stiles's face crumples. 'Oh,' he says, and suddenly he's sobbing in earnest, sliding off the bench to bury his face in Derek's shoulder.

Derek tenses, then slowly, carefully wraps Stiles in a hug. Chunks of gravel pinch his knees, and from the church, he hears Scott speaking, telling a story about the time he and Stiles broke a window in fifth grade, and how the Sheriff guilted them into confessing by deputising the pair of them to help find the _real_ criminals. Stiles clings to him like a long-fingered limpet, all bent angles and choking breath, and mutters something inaudible into Derek's suit.

'Stiles?' he asks, and realises belatedly that he's stroking the boy's back. Or, no – not boy, Derek realises. Young adult. Man, even. Stiles is eighteen now, and after everything they've seen and fought in Beacon Hills, he hasn't been a boy for a very long time. Derek stills his hand, flushes, tries again. 'What do you want?'

Stiles presses his forehead into Derek's collarbone. 'Can we go?'

Carefully, Derek says, 'Are you sure? He won't get another funeral, Stiles, and if you're worried... everyone will understand why you walked out.'

'I didn't walk,' Stiles mumbles. 'You dragged me.'

'Even so.'

A moment of considering silence. Then Stiles sighs, the huff of breath warm on Derek's throat. 'This isn't a goodbye,' he says. 'He's already gone, he can't hear me. It's a performance, and I can't – Jesus, I can't do this, Derek, I can't go back in there, I can't do the wake, I can't spend the next eight hours explaining to everyone that _I didn't think he was dead_ –' his voice cracks on the words, '– and I just, I just want to lie down, you know?' And then, in a whisper, 'I just want it to be quiet.'

'OK,' says Derek, because he does know, and he wishes like hell that Stiles didn't. 'Where do you want me to take you?' These days, he rates a spare key to Parrish's apartment, the McCall home and Lydia's lakehouse, though he doesn't have one for the Stilinski house. Which is odd, given how much time he's spent there in the last few years, but for all Stiles likes to tease him about coming in through the window like a creeperwolf, he's never stopped leaving it open.

'The loft,' Stiles says, and Derek blinks.

'My loft?'

Stiles knuckles one eye and glares at him with the other. 'What, like there's more than one?'

'I guess not,' Derek concedes, and helps Stiles to his feet. 'Have you got your phone?'

'Yeah?'

'Then text Scott where we're headed. He'll worry otherwise.'

Stiles hiccups, leaning into him. 'Oh, right, like you're the expert on Scott McCall.'

'What can I say? It's a gift.'

'Ass,' Stiles says.

But he does it anyway.


	4. Chapter 4

 Stiles texts Scott as Derek pulls out of the parking lot, then pockets his phone and tips his head to the window.

_My dad is dead._

The glass is cool on his temple, the engine hum a reassuring vibration through the seats. He doesn't often ride in the Camaro, but when he does, he always remembers Erica on her bombshell début, sliding in alongside Derek and smiling like happy poison. It usually gives him a pang, but not today; or maybe it does, and he just can't feel it.

He doesn't have room for old grief.

_My dad is dead._

Mercifully, Derek doesn't speak, though Stiles is peripherally aware of being watched. It's... he tries to think of a word that means predictable-funny-comforting-weird and comes up dry, because Scott is his brother forever and always, but somewhere between wolfsbane bullets and the second, spectacular death of Kate Argent, Derek became the guy that Stiles suffers with. Which sounds horrific, when he puts it like that, except for the part where it's literally true: somehow, they always end up alone when one of them is dying or hurt or struggling, and however much you snark at someone the rest of the time, that sort of shit builds rapport.

_My dad is dead._

Stiles is an orphan. The thought hits him out of nowhere – or, wait, does it count any more? Can he still be called an orphan if he's legally an adult? At what point, exactly, does the loss of both parents cease to qualify you for orphan status?

'It doesn't matter,' says Derek, which is how Stiles knows he's been musing the point aloud. 'It's just a label. Loss always hurts.'

'You'd know,' says Stiles. He doesn't mean to be cruel, more matter of fact, but Derek flinches anyway.

'Yeah,' he says, softly. 'I do.'

'I'm sorry.'

'You don't have to apologise.'

'Yes I fucking do!' Stiles snaps. 'Jesus, Derek, you're not Yoda, OK? You're allowed to react. I don't get a free pass for hurting people just because my dad –' He chokes on the admission, and finds he's crying again, without cease or strength, like his tear ducts have sprung a leak. 'How do you do this, man? How do you just –' He waves a feeble hand, indicating Derek's resting scowl, his suit, his car, like these are all symptoms of something suspicious, '– _how_?'

'Stiles.' Derek sighs, pulls over, turns off the engine. They're outside the loft, and suddenly Stiles feels very small. 'We'll talk inside, OK?'

'OK,' he croaks, and lets Derek guide him gently up the stairs, two fingertips nudging his elbow. He rips off his tie and the ill-fitting jacket the second they're through the door, pops his top collar buttons, kicks angrily at his shoes and toes off his socks for good measure, but when he unbuckles his belt, Derek actually _yelps_.

'What the hell, Stiles? We're not – I mean, you don't –'

'It pinches,' Stiles says, which is true, and flings the belt on the polished floor. And then, because Derek still looks a little faint, 'Relax, big guy. I'm not going to force myself on you.'

Derek freezes. 'Don't joke about that,' he says, quietly, and this time, it's Stiles who flinches.

'Fuck,' he says, and hugs himself, taking two steps back for good measure. 'I didn't – _fuck_ , Derek, I didn't think. I'm sorry.'

This time, Derek doesn't protest the apology; just turns away, lifting a shoulder towards the kitchen. 'You want some tea?'

'Yeah,' says Stiles, even though he doesn't, and in that moment, he hates himself more than he thought was possible. He's still the only one who knows the full truth about Kate and Jennifer, about what they did to Derek, and it doesn't fucking matter how messed up you are, you don't betray a confidence like that, you don't make the goddamn rape survivor anxious in his own home by suddenly getting undressed and making fucking _cracks_ about it because you've got the luxury of forgetting what they can't. You just _don't_ , OK? Only Stiles just did, which makes him scum.

His dad would've remembered.

He exhales hard, and his legs go out from under him. He's crying again, staring helplessly at his hands, and then Derek's there, murmuring that it's all right, he's all right, and it's such an obvious lie that it almost loops back around into comforting again.

'Come on, Stiles,' says Derek, and somehow gets him up again, guiding him over to the bed, watching as Stiles crawls bonelessly under the covers. 'Just rest. Whatever you need. It's OK.'

'It's not OK.' He lifts his head, fixes Derek with the closest thing to a stare he can currently muster. 'I shouldn't have said it.'

'Yeah, well. I shouldn't have bitten Jackson. We all make mistakes.'

Stiles startles enough to laugh, albeit weakly. 'You know, I'm gonna remember you said that.'

Derek's lips twitch. 'I'd expect nothing less.'

The tension breaks, and Stiles lets his head flop back on the pillow, wet eyes slipping shut. 'Don't worry about the tea,' he mumbles. He's not asleep, but he doesn't feel quite awake, either. Grief is a jagged snarl in his chest, and his body has its own opinions on how to deal with that. He's aware of Derek as a background presence, steady and calm, but otherwise, he spirals inwards, thinking of everything he's spent the past week repressing.

Like the way his dad looked when the bullet hit; how his very last word was _son_. Like the fact that Stiles was still waiting to come out to him about being bisexual, because it had _hurt_ , that time outside Jungle, no matter how extenuating the circumstances, to be told he didn't dress right for the orientation he'd only just started to wonder about – he'd had a _plan_ , OK? Go off to college, get a boyfriend, bring him home for Thanksgiving or Christmas or some other holiday; show his dad that it wasn't a phase, that Stiles didn't need to let Lydia redesign his wardrobe to want someone that way –

Stiles presses his face to the pillow, and sobs.

 


	5. Chapter 5

 When Stiles finally passes out, it feels like a creeper move to watch him sleep, but stranger still to look away, as though his scent won't linger in Derek's sheets for days; as though he doesn't want to offer a much more physical sort of comfort. Guilt spikes through him at the thought: it's too close to what Jennifer did – or how she did it, anyway – and Stiles is still young enough for Derek to worry, in moments like this, that he's turning into Kate. Both comparisons are repulsive, but not enough to stop him wanting, even when he shouldn't.

So Derek sighs, and sits on the couch, and checks his phone for messages. Unsurprisingly, there are several – one each from Scott, Malia, Kira and Lydia. He reads them in order, smiling faintly at the typical tone of each sender.

_Thx 4 taking him. Mom says dont worry bout t wake, we got this. Call if u need anythin._

_Tell the idiot we love him & are eating his pie._

_Hope ur OK!!! Hug Stiles for me <3_

_Next time he has a panic attack, just kiss him._

Derek reads and rereads the final text from Lydia, swallowing thickly. He responds to the other three messages, tells Scott and Kira thanks and Malia to save them some leftovers, and then reopens Lydia's text, hoping it might have somehow changed in the interim. It hasn't. Derek glances over at Stiles, who's sprawled out like a marionette, and cautiously texts back, _Why?_

Her answer is instantaneous: _Because it works, dumbass. I did it once when he freaked out at school. The kiss makes him hold his breath, which stops him hyperventilating, which stops the attack._

 _Oh_ , thinks Derek. His thumbs hover over the keypad, paused as he struggles to word his reply, when another text from Lydia beeps in.

_Besides, you'd both enjoy it._

Oh.

_Oh._

Oblivious in his dreams, Stiles whimpers, and Derek fights a surprisingly lupine urge to break his phone. Then, before he can think better of it, he texts Lydia back.

_All the more reason not to do it now._

He turns it off before she can respond, clawed nails raking lightly through his hair. Lydia's observations don't have to matter. Derek is physically attractive, and while he knows, rationally, that Kate and Jennifer were both predatory, manipulative, deep down, he wonders if they might have left him alone, if he'd been plainer; or if, at the very least, they might have found different ways to hurt him. So, no: if Stiles likes his body, it doesn't mean anything, which means that, by logical extension, it doesn't mean anything if Derek likes Stiles's body, either.

Which, for the record, he does. Very much.

But Stiles is flayed raw, and regardless of whether he thinks Derek's hot the rest of the time, Derek would be the worst sort of person to do what Lydia's suggesting – to use his lust as a tool, the way Kate did, or his vulnerability as an inroads, the way Jennifer did, and what the fuck does Lydia _mean_ , she did it once, and it worked? Like that's supposed to make it OK? Stiles loved her for _years_ , and she just – just –

 _Relax, big guy. I'm not going to force myself on you_.

Derek swallows a growl and storms to the bathroom, steadily shedding clothes. He has too many triggers these days, and he hates that about himself, but the wolf, his true-wolf, keeps him steady, makes him simple again. He lets the shift wash over him, the wax and wane of his bones like absolution, and when he's done, he's not Derek Hale any more, not quite: just a blue-eyed, black-furred wolf who answers to that name.

Nails clicking on the bathroom tile, Derek whines in his throat and pads back out to the main room. The wolf isn't a threat to Stiles, and while his thoughts are still his own, the more human fears are harder to cling to like this, harder to process. He puts them away and jumps up onto comforter, and as Stiles makes a pained noise, flailing in his sleep, Derek whines and burrows against his chest. Stiles accepts his presence without waking, turning his face to Derek's ruff, an arm flung over his flank. He smells of _pack_ and _home_ and _safe_ , but also of sadness, which the wolf mislikes.

Derek curls his tail to his legs, and settles in to rest. 


	6. Chapter 6

For the first time since it happened, Stiles has nightmares. He sees his dad die, as helpless to stop it in dreams as he was in the moment, then wakes up, thrashing and shouting, to a warm weight of wolf on his chest. A rough tongue licks the tears from his cheeks, and any other time, he'd make a crack about Derek acting like a service dog, but right now, he's too grateful for the contact. Derek is heavy and soft, his dark fur tickling Stiles's face, and the novelty of it is strong enough to pierce the grief and stir his curiosity. Ever since he achieved the full shift in Mexico, Stiles has secretly wanted to pet wolf-Derek, and if he thinks about his dad, he'll drown, so instead, he combs his fingers through Derek's ruff and murmurs, 'Hey there, heavywolf.'

Derek chuffs, which Stiles takes for laughter, and lets his fingers move higher, skritching behind his ears. The fur there is shorter, softer, and Derek tilts into the touch, whining softly as he drops his chin onto Stiles's chest. His blue eyes are lambent in the quiet light; it's grey outside, but not full dark, and for a minute or five, Stiles loses himself in touch. He smooths his thumbs along the soft lines of Derek's skull, the ridges above his eyes, then buries his hands in the long, impossibly thick fur of his chest. It's strangely soothing, and out of nowhere, it occurs to him that nobody ever really touches Derek; certainly not like this, but not when he's human, either.

He stills his hands, but doesn't drop them, fingers caught in fur. His heart is impossibly full, and if he were alone right now, in his empty house, he'd probably let the weight of his grief consume him. But he's not alone. He clings to the thought, drawing strength from it, clarity: his dad is dead, and that won't ever stop hurting, but _he's not alone,_ and as he looks at Derek, at the kind intelligence in those big, bright eyes, an old guilt pricks his conscience, catclaw-sharp _._ He's never been able to say it to Derek's human face, but the wolf is easier, somehow, and deep in his dormant-spark soul, Stiles knows that saying it now is a bond, or a promise, like closing a mountain ash circle with will alone.

'I'm sorry,' he murmurs, softly. 'Sorry about Laura. About digging her up, I mean – shit, we never apologised for that, but she was all you had, and we just – Jesus, that first year when Scott was bitten, I knew what you'd lost, but it was too big, I couldn't feel it, I didn't understand the stakes, I didn't _know_ you, man, and I'm so fucking sorry you had to go through it alone.' And he wraps the wolf in his arms, and presses their foreheads together. 'But you're not alone, Derek. Not with me.'

It's not quite a noise, and it's not quite a feeling, but somehow a hybrid of both. Reality ripples, fur into skin, and suddenly there's a naked Derek sprawled on him, on top of the comforter, human eyes wide and aching.

'Stiles?' Derek asks, and there's a hitch in the word, like he can't quite breathe around it. 'Stiles, are you s–'

Stiles kisses him, gently, palms braced on the smooth rounds of his shoulders. He's wanted this for so damn long, he can't even pick when it happened; only that it did, and that he's done waiting. Derek makes a noise in his throat that's halfway between a wolf's whine and a human whimper, and shifts his weight along Stiles's body, arms coming up to bracket his head as he kisses back, stubbled and tentative, holding himself as lightly as he can, which isn't very. Stiles slides a hand up to Derek's neck, keeping his touch gentle; their lips break apart, and Derek is shaking, raggedy breaths and jumping pulse as he whispers, 'You really want m- this?'

'I really want you,' Stiles says, answering the half-voiced question first. 'I really want this, Derek. Do you?'

The answer is almost inaudible. 'Yes.'

'But?'

'But,' says Derek, licking his lips, 'you're grieving. Vulnerable. I don't want to take advantage of that.'

'You're not,' says Stiles, and pushes himself upright, his back to the headboard, leaving Derek to straddle his lap – and nope, he's not looking down, not yet; Stilinski men are gentlemen – and pin him with that heterochromic stare.

'Derek, listen to me. I had a five year plan for you, OK? I had it all figured out. I was going to go off to college, fool around, get some experience, a steady boyfriend or two – and then I was going to come back here, a viable sexual prospect, and woo the crap out of you, because you're _you_ and I'm _me_ , and I didn't think –' he slides his palm to Derek's cheek, breath catching as he leans into the touch, '– I didn't think you'd want me like I was. I thought I had time, I thought – Jesus, I don't know what I was thinking, and I know it's the corniest line in the book, but life's too damn short, and this is _Beacon Hills_ , we've had kanimas and alpha packs and criminal syndicates and assassins, and who the fuck knows what's coming next?'

'Stiles –'

'But ever since Scott was bitten,' Stiles says, gulping, 'you know what's scared me the most? The thought that something in this world, some supernatural _thing,_ was going to kill my dad. Because I'm the one who dragged Scott into the woods that night, I put us in the firing line –' his throat tightens, tears pricking his eyes, '– but now he's gone, he's really _gone_ , and all because some belligerent, sexist shitstain was beating his wife, and I just, it occurs to me, in light of this fact –' he pulls Derek closer, speech going fast and choppy as his free hand skates up a warm, hard thigh, '– that five year plans are bullshit when I could get hit by a car tomorrow, never mind the imminent, constant threat of magical dismemberment, and right now, Derek, what I want, what I _really want_ , is something worth living for, and by _something_ , I mean _you,_ in whatever way you'll have me. OK?'

'OK,' Derek breathes, and kisses him like the world's ending; like he wants to rebuild it again.

 _And maybe we can,_ Stiles thinks, and kisses back, hard and hopeful. _Goddamit, maybe we can._


	7. Chapter 7

Derek has died, or nearly died, more often than he can count. He knows pain in all its permutations – how to hurt, how to hide that he's hurting, how to grit his teeth and endure. He's known gentleness, too, but rarely and long ago, the memories worn so thin, they feel third-hand instead of his own. Braeden was good to him, but though she was caring, they were never close, not like that. He trusted her not to hurt him, and she didn't, and when she left, as they'd always known she would, she trusted him not to be hurt by it, and he wasn't; and that was all. But tenderness, reverence, love – they're beyond his frame of reference. He kisses Stiles, and it makes him ache, like he's never been touched before.

And he hasn't. Not like this.

Gently, Stiles tugs him under the covers. Derek presses against him, rubbing his stubble along the pale skin of his throat. Stiles moans, twisting his fingers through Derek's hair, guiding his mouth up higher, up to the sensitive skin behind his ear. Derek kisses him, nips at the lobe, hips rutting of their own accord.

'Clothes,' Stiles gasps, 'why am I still – clothes, off –' and pulls at his formal shirt.

Derek kneels upright, his legs bracketing Stiles's thigh, and says, 'Let me.'

Stiles nods, lying back in the pillows, and they're both breathing too fast, eyes wide as Derek leans in and starts to pop open the buttons, one by one, his hands impossibly steady as he unwraps Stiles like a Christmas present, all lean muscle and pale, clean skin, the tempting line of his collarbones, the sharp jut of his hips. Fully unbuttoned, he guides the shirt over Stiles's shoulders, palms sweeping across his chest, and Stiles sits up just enough to let it fall away, until he's propped on his elbows. Derek drinks in the sight of him, fingertips ghosting the shape of his ribs. The scent of grief is still there, though their joint arousal is stronger, and when Derek hesitates, Stiles looks up at him and says, softly, 'It's OK.'

Derek swallows. Nods. He can't look away from Stiles. His eyes are the colour of burnt honey, red-rimmed but still bright, his absurd lips plush and parted, and suddenly Derek is overwhelmed by the fact that he gets to have this, that Stiles not only wants him back, but never once mentioned his body. Just like that, the hesitation is gone. He unzips Stiles's pants, hooks his fingers behind both layers of fabric, and drags them down, moving aside to pull them off. Stiles kicks himself free and grabs for Derek, and suddenly they're flush together, skin on skin, the hard, warm jut of Stiles's erection burning against his own.

Derek groans, teeth grazing Stiles's throat as he slides down his body, tongue flicking a nipple – Siltes hisses, arching his back – before kissing across his stomach, nosing down his happy trail to his cock. He looks up the length of his body, watching Stiles's eyes widen as he takes him in his mouth, savouring the taste of precome. Neither of them looks away, and when Stiles reaches down to twist his fingers through his hair, Derek moans and sucks harder, encouraging him to fuck his mouth – which Stiles does, first tentatively, then thrusting his hips in a sharp rhythm, blunt nails scratching Derek's scalp as he tightens his grip.

The combined sensation is almost enough to get Derek off untouched. It's so fucking long since he's been with someone, and with the exception of Braeden, his consensual sexual history consists almost entirely of one-night stands – quick, anonymous fucks with men or, much more rarely, women, humans who don't know what he is and never will. He doesn't trust strangers enough to ask for what he wants, but Stiles once held him up for hours, paralysed and deadweight in eight feet of water, and next to that, admitting that he likes to be manhandled at least as often as he likes to do the manhandling is utterly inconsequential.

'Jesus, Derek,' Stiles gasps, back bowing up off the bed as Derek hooks his arms under his knees and takes him to the hilt. He makes a noise that should be fucking _illegal_ , and Derek redoubles his efforts, tongue slicking up the shaft in counterpoint to his hollowed cheeks. Stiles shudders and comes, the taste of him hot and sharp and perfect. Derek swallows, doesn't pull off until Stiles lets go of his hair, then kisses his way back up his body, retracing – or remouthing, rather – his descent, until he's nuzzling fondly at Stiles's throat.

Stiles turns in his arms, slips down enough to kiss him properly, open-mouthed and urgent, clever hands skating tenderly over his sides, back, hips. Even grieving, even sated, Stiles touches him lightly, but with possession, as though he already knows that Derek wants to be claimed, but not owned; cherished, but not coddled, and suddenly Stiles is moving, rolling him onto his stomach, draping himself along Derek's back as he laces their fingers together. Derek whimpers, hips seeking futile friction against the sheets as Stiles leaves a string of biting kisses across his shoulders.

'What do you want?' Stiles whispers, lipping the shell of his ear. 'Tell me what you want.'

Derek shuts his eyes, inhaling the scent of sweat, sex, _Stiles_. He can't remember the last time anyone asked him that. Perhaps they never have. He flushes even before he answers, hiding his face in the pillow.

'Want your hands, your fingers.' The words come out choked, as though he's confessing to something shameful. 'God, Stiles, please –'

'Yeah,' he breathes. 'I can do that.' He kisses the nape of Derek's neck, gently disentangling their hands. 'Where's your –?'

'Top drawer, on the right,' says Derek, and bites back a wanting noise as Stiles lifts away from his body. Shame rushes through him at that: he ought to be taking care of Stiles, not begging Stiles to take care of him, as though he has any right to neediness on a day like this –

'Hey,' says Stiles, softly, prompting him to look up. 'Derek, you're allowed to want this, OK? You're allowed to want things for yourself. And I –' his voice shakes, just a little, '– I can take care of you. I _want_ to take care of you. So.' He leans in, bumps their foreheads together. 'Let me?'

Overwhelmed, Derek nods against him, eyes closing as Stiles kisses his cheek. It's what Stiles does, he realises suddenly: he takes care of people, even and especially when they won't admit to needing help. Like training Scott to control the change when Derek was too scared and broken to do it himself, or talking Lydia down from one of her rare breaks in composure, or making sure his dad stays away from curly fries –

A bolt of grief shoots through him at the slip. It's _stayed_ , not _stays_ , but even as he mourns the loss, an anxious part of him settles. Taking care of others is how Stiles copes, and if that's true, then Derek isn't selfish to let him try.

'Kneel up?' Stiles asks, and Derek complies, head pillowed on his arms. He sucks in breath, shivering as Stiles runs reverent hands across his thighs, then chokes back a moan as a lube-slicked finger slips inside him. God, he's had fucking _years_ to fantasise about those fingers, the different ways they might work on him, and as it turns out, they're every bit as dexterous as he'd hoped. He bites his lip, embarrassed by his own noises, but Stiles won't let him hide: he strokes his free hand along Derek's flank, then grips his hip, hard, and murmurs, 'Let me hear you.'

And Derek does, steadily shaking apart as Stiles crooks his fingers, pressing his sweet spot, scissoring him open, coaxing him so close to the edge that when he finally touches his cock, he barely lasts three strokes. The orgasm punches through him like lightning. Back arched, Derek shudders through it, and as he shakily gulps in air, Stiles lips at his tattoo and says, 'Perfect.'

 

*

 

They kiss their way through the cleanup, languid and soft. While Stiles is in the bathroom, Derek heats up some leftover Chinese takeaway, which is all he really has in the fridge, and they eat it together in bed, Stiles sitting tucked between his legs, his back to Derek's chest. They stay like that when the food is done, the empty containers abandoned on the nightstand, and when Stiles starts to shiver, Derek kisses his neck and pulls the comforter over them both, his right arm wrapped possessively around Stiles's chest.

'He's gone,' Stiles says. The words are hollow, small, like pebbles dropped in a well. 'I couldn't save him. I _yelled_ at him, Derek. The last conversation we ever had, and I wasted it yelling about cholesterol, and then he just –'

'You took care of him, Stiles. You didn't waste anything.' He kisses his hair, his left hand tangling with Stiles's right. 'You're a good son, a good man. You loved him, and he loved you, and you knew what you meant to each other. Death doesn't change that.'

Stiles presses back against Derek, swallowing a sob. 'I never came out to him. He'll never see us together, he'll never –' he twists his head to look at him, '– he'll never know what you mean to me. Or –' he hesitates, sounding small, '– or what I mean to you.'

Something blooms in Derek's chest, a fierce, bright ache like nothing he's ever known before, and in that moment, he'd happily burn the world for Stiles Stilinski.

'He knew,' Derek says, softly. 'For my part, at least. He knew how I feel about you.'

Stiles jerks his head up, wide-eyed, staring. 'What?'

'We had a talk.' Absurdly, Derek blushes. 'A few months back, he called me in to double-check something in one of his old cases, see if there was a supernatural link – which there wasn't, so far as I knew. But it was late, he was done for the day, so he poured himself a drink, and we talked. And he asked me, from my perspective, how I came to trust you at all, given that we started out with you asking him to arrest me. Twice.'

'And?'

'And I told him about the pool,' says Derek, simply. 'I told him you kept me floating as long as you could, and that when you couldn't hold on any more, you let me sink to the bottom to try and call Scott. And I told him –' his throat tightens, as does his grip on Stiles, '– I told him, when you did it, that I thought you'd let me drown. I was nothing to you. I'd bitten and turned your friends, I'd threatened you, I'd done so much wrong – I was afraid to die, but I wasn't angry at you for letting it happen. You did your best, but I wasn't worth saving. Nobody would've blamed you. So I shut my eyes, and I thought, _I'll count to ten and open my mouth, and then I can just stop._ '

Stiles's eyes widen, horrified. 'Derek. God, no, I wouldn't have let you drown –'

'And you didn't,' Derek says, voice cracking. 'That's just it, Stiles, you pulled me up again. You saved my life, and I couldn't – I dreamed about it for months, you know that? I still dream about it now. I'm all alone, and just as I'm about to drown, you grab me, and then I can breathe again. And I told your dad everything, because I thought he deserved to know how brave you were, and he looked at me like – like he was measuring me, somehow. Like he knew everything else I hadn't said. He told me you were a good kid, the best.' He smiles, lips twitching of their own accord. 'And then he asked if I knew your birthday was coming up.'

Stiles makes a noise that's somewhere between mortified and delighted. 'Oh, my god. Are you kidding me?'

'I'm not. And just for the record, I'd already bought your present.'

'That sneaky, meddling –' Stiles huffs out a laugh – his first real humour in days – then freezes, clearly shocked at himself. He shakes his head, turns, and buries his face in Derek's shoulder, twining both arms tight around his neck. Derek wraps Stiles close and shifts until they're lying down, cocooned beneath the comforter. Outside, it starts to rain, a soothing patter against the glass.

'I miss him,' Stiles whispers, voice rough with tears.

'I know, love,' says Derek. 'I know.'

Shyly, Stiles hooks their legs together.

Derek doesn't let go.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Stiles dreams of the Nemeton, which isn't so unusual. He's back in the root cellar, hunching under collapsing boards with Melissa McCall, Chris Argent and his dad, a cheap aluminium baseball bat the only thing keeping them safe. He grips the metal, steadying it, and grins as his dad does likewise.

'I'm the dad,' says the Sheriff, smiling. 'You're the son. I take care of you.'

Stiles frowns; they've had this conversation before, but later, much later. 'We're supposed to take care of each other,' he says, and then the dream twists, and he's screaming himself awake in bed, his father's hand on his shoulder.

'You're all right, Stiles. I've got you. It's just a nightmare.'

'The Nogitsune –' Stiles gasps, staring around his bedroom, trying to orient himself.

'The Nogitsune's gone. It's dead. You're alone now.'

Goosebumps pebble his arms. 'Alone?'

'It's dead, son,' his dad says, softly. 'And so am I.'

And then he wakes up for real, pulse jackhammering in a throat so tight, it's like he's been holding his breath. For a moment, he's disoriented, struggling to sort reality from fiction, and then he remembers _my dad's dead, he's really dead,_ and it hits him all over again, the horrible, wrenching loss. He lets out a broken noise, keening into the pillow, and then a warm arm pulls him close, a stubbled cheek grazing the back of his neck.

'You're safe,' Derek murmurs, 'I've got you. Here.' He takes hold of Stiles's hand, bringing it up to his shoulder, thumb pressed into the palm to splay it open. 'No extra fingers. See?' And he kisses their tips, one by one, counting out loud so Stiles can hear it. 'Not dreaming. Safe.'

Stiles shuts his eyes, his heart a snare of love. Of course Derek remembers that. Of course he knows exactly what to say. 'You know,' Stiles rasps, trying for levity and not quite getting it, 'for a guy who used to communicate entirely through threats and growling, your people skills have really improved.'

'My people skills are terrible,' Derek says, kissing Stiles's shoulder. 'But I'm taking a course in Stilinski.'

Stiles shakes, tasting tears on his lips, and fights a burst of inappropriate laughter. 'God, that sounds awful. Is it hard?'

He feels more than sees the answering smile, like warmth against his back. 'Very,' Derek says, shifting against him – and oh, yeah, _it really is,_ '– but I think I passed the oral.'

Stiles's breath catches. 'Oh, I don't know,' he says, turning until they're face to face, the tips of their noses touching. 'You might have to retake it. Many times. In many different positions.'

Derek smiles at him, soft and perfect, and kisses the edge of his mouth. 'I think I can live with that.'

'Promise?' Stiles asks, and this time, it's not a euphemism.

'Yeah,' says Derek, softly. 'I promise.'

 

*

 

Stiles's life is full of hard choices. It always has been, and maybe always will be.

Loving Derek Hale isn't one of them. 


End file.
